


The Knockout Blow

by TheNerdHerdIsComing



Category: Midsomer Murders
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:39:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2004213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNerdHerdIsComing/pseuds/TheNerdHerdIsComing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben Jones goes to interview a suspect, but not everything goes to plan…</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Knockout Blow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoesntMakeYouAGenius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoesntMakeYouAGenius/gifts).



The moment the door swung open under his knock, Ben Jones was on his guard.  
Barnaby had sent him, the vast circle of friends belonging to their latest victim requiring them to split up in order to solve the case before Christmas. Barnaby had headed off to speak to the wife, whilst Jones took the best friend.  
At the moment, they were still in the very early stages of the investigation, but the fact that the best friend of a man who had been murdered two days ago had left his door wide open made him extremely nervous, senses honed by years of policing tingling at the back of his neck. It was entirely possible that he was about to find another body, or even confront the killer, perhaps interrupted in the act.  
The hallway was empty, presenting Jones with a dilemma. Should he call out? It was, after all, entirely plausible that the man he had come to interview was simply rather scatty and had made a common mistake. But the possibility of highlighting his presence to a murderer reared up in his mind and stilled his tongue.  
Gently, feet soft against the floorboards, Jones proceeded. He surveyed the living room, every movement layered with care, but it was empty, not a living soul in sight. He continued down the hallway, stopping at the threshold of the dining room. Taking a deep breath, he cautiously poked his head around the door, prepared for whatever scene he was presented with.  
The fist appeared from nowhere, making crunching contact with his nose and sending him reeling back into the corridor. His vision was instantly blurred, tears springing to his eyes unbidden as his hand shot to his face and came away bloodied. By the sounds of things, his nose was now in roughly three pieces, and he had an attacker to contend with.  
He could make out a figure advancing towards him, revealing himself from where he had been concealed against the doorframe, clearly waiting for Jones. The DS knew he had to go on the offensive, so he launched himself forwards, flying in with a right hook despite the throbbing pain from his nose. He managed to land it right on the point of the figure's jaw, apparently surprising him, and sending him backwards.  
He knew he had to press his advantage, but the punch seemed only to have angered his much larger opponent, who retaliated with a vicious right hook of his own. Jones' head snapped to the side and the world span, throwing his equilibrium off and leaving him pressed against the wall. Now the balance of things had swung away from him and he was going to struggle to regain the advantage. Two more hard punches to his cheekbone split the skin and pulled blackness to the edge of his gaze. Desperately he tried to defend himself under the hail of punches with a block, anything, but the roaring in his ears had left him disorientated and any attempt was flimsy. Yet another hit to the jaw clattered his teeth together and was swiftly followed by an uppercut to the diaphragm. Jones' vision had just about cleared by now, but it was of little use as the air abandoned his lungs and he admired the floor from a doubled up position. It soon disappeared again, anyway, as the attacker drove his knee into Jones' already damaged nose.  
White hot pain exploded through his head and he howled, finding himself on the floor without really knowing how he got there. He could taste blood, feel it dripping off his chin. His hold on consciousness was pretty tenuous by now, so he was totally helpless as the man approached. He could just about make out that it was David Jacobs, the very man he had come to see. Well, if he was innocent, he was doing a very good job of hiding it. Desperately, he tried to clear his head, to mount some sort of defence, but his ears were buzzing like a nest of hornets and the entire world was tinged with grey.  
It was at that point that all coherent thought left Jones' head, as Jacobs raised his foot and slammed it down onto Jones' shin.  
There was a resounding crack and the pain from his broken nose was forgotten as agony shot through his lower leg. Through ears which seemed as though they were underwater, he heard his own scream of anguish, before the pain finally overwhelmed him and he sank into blissful unconsciousness.

Jones didn't know how much later it was that he woke, but he was aware of people milling about. His brain felt slow and lethargic, unable to really remember what had happened, too focused on the extreme pain which had instantly returned to the forefront of his mind. The sharp ache from his nose radiated along his cheekbones and into his skull, but it was his leg which really caught his attention, pain indescribable.  
Unable to stomach it any longer, he turned his head to the side and was violently sick. Shock, he thought dimly, mind barely coherent but instincts recognising the shivers and cold sweat which had broken out.  
He groaned, field of vision narrowing and swimming, teetering on the edge of consciousness.  
It was then that Barnaby's head came into view, parallel with his. Head finally starting to clear a little, though still spinning sickeningly, he registered surprise. What was Barnaby doing here?  
"Ben. You're alright, don't move. The paramedics are here, they'll give you something for the pain."  
Barnaby had had quite a scare that morning. He'd sent Jones off to have a word with the friend and went to talk to the wife himself. It didn't take him long to get it out of her that she had been having an affair with her husband's best friend and suspected that he was the murderer. When Barnaby couldn't raise Jones on his mobile, he had immediately rushed over, calling for backup en route, only to discover Jones splayed in the hallway, out cold, face covered in blood and the white of his tibia poking out through his shin. He'd almost been sick himself, horror-struck as he was, and for a terrifying moment he feared that he'd lost his sergeant, only relaxing when he found a strong pulse at Jones' neck.  
That was when he'd called the ambulance. And then he'd sat by Ben's side, refusing to move, blaming himself for the distressing state of his sergeant.  
The paramedics had just arrived when Ben came round, police officers having already sealed the scene, and were examining his leg. As he'd woken, one of them had disappeared back into the ambulance to try and find something they could give him to ease his suffering, so Barnaby tried to keep his mind off it in the meantime.  
"Don't suppose you remember much? Don't worry now, but I assume the man who did this to you was Jacobs," continued Barnaby, conscious that he was starting to waffle but not really knowing what else to do.  
The only reply he got was a groan, which he took as a good sign; at least Ben was aware that he was being spoken to. By the state of his face (they'd cleaned some of the blood off and it quickly became apparent that Jones had taken quite a beating - his lip was split, his cheekbones cut and bruised and his nose badly misshapen) it would be unsurprising if he'd suffered a touch of concussion along with everything else.  
"Jacobs... murder... leg..." Jones mumbled, fairly incoherent.  
"Shh, calm down," ordered Barnaby, smoothing his hair comfortingly, "You can tell me later."  
By now, the paramedic had returned. He informed Barnaby that it was a powerful sedative, then administered it. It would work, he said, in a matter of minutes.  
In a mind hazed with pain, Jones was trying to think straight. He was aware that Barnaby was asking him questions and he tried to answer, but every thought was jagged, wandering off on a tangent at frequent intervals. At one point, a bright colour came into view, and Jones saw a smiling face talking to Barnaby. There was a stinging in his hand, and soon after the pain began to subside, to his eternal relief. His thoughts cleared slightly, and he was about to announce that he was fine and could get up when they began to cloud again. Frustrated, Jones made a half-attempt to get up from his uncomfortable position on the floor, but his muscles refused to cooperate. For the second time that day, Jones slipped into unconsciousness.

 

The next time Jones woke up, Barnaby was waiting. He'd been waiting a while, in fairness. He'd refused to leave the ambulance, sitting by Jones for the whole journey, and only leaving him in the hospital when they took him into surgery to set his leg. It was a clean break, fortunately, and should heal well. So should his nose, though that was less clean, shattered in six places as it was.  
Now Jones lay in a bed, swathed in clean white sheets. His face, though decidedly less grey with shock and pain than it had been in the house, was now a multitude of different colours, nicks and stitches. The gash on his cheekbone had been stitched, but it was now swelling up nicely and going a beautiful shade of blue. Both eyes were already ringed with deep purple, and there were other mottled bruises at his temple and jawbone. His lip, too, was swollen, split and stitched. The doctors thought he probably had a mild concussion to add to things, but it would be difficult to ascertain until he came round.  
The leg was going to leave him out of commission for a while. Though the surgery had gone well, and he was now in an open cast, the doctors had told Barnaby that he was likely to be hospital-bound for the next six weeks or so due to the nature of his injury, and it was hard to say how long after that he would regain full motion. Regardless, Barnaby was just glad that his sergeant was going to be ok, and contented himself with watching him, looking down at the battered face and thinking it should have been him.  
When Jones stirred, he was relieved. Though he knew that he was fine, it would still be good to hear his voice.  
Eyes cracking open, Jones grimaced at the fluorescent light stabbing at his eyes. He had a pounding headache and he felt as though he'd been thrown off a cliff a couple of times, but aside from that, he felt pretty good, all things considered. Particularly when he did consider and remembered blearily how he'd got here, with the comfortable bed and bright lights.  
"Ow," he groaned.  
"I cannot blame you for that response, Jones," replied Barnaby. Jones hadn't yet noticed him, so he started slightly, then relaxed when he realised it was friend, not foe.  
"Sorry, sir. Let my guard down," Jones immediately responded.  
"Nonsense, man. How could you have known Jacobs was a murdering psychopath who was going to attack you? And besides, I'm sure you were perfectly cautious in your approach," said Barnaby.  
"He certainly surprised me, sir," murmured Jones, continuing at Barnaby's raised eyebrow, "Hid then punched my lights out, broke my nose. Knocked me about a bit then hit - well, kneed - me in the nose again. That was enough for me, but then he - well, you can see, I suppose," Jones informed him. Barnaby winced sympathetically.  
"So it was Jacobs, then?"  
"Probably. I couldn't really see very well. Have you got him?"  
"Not yet, he got clean away," Barnaby frowned, "But don't worry, Ben. We'll find him. We'll find him."


End file.
